


how to get back there

by stars_inthe_sky



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Awesome Natasha Romanov, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Baltimore, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Eventual Smut, F/M, Killer Robots, Museums, POV Natasha Romanov, Post-Apocalypse, Slow Burn, Stranded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-17 04:50:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15453720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stars_inthe_sky/pseuds/stars_inthe_sky
Summary: After the end of the world, Natasha finds herself injured and alone in the shell of an unfamiliar city—but for her unexpectedly kind rescuer, who has a safehouse, a secret, and, just maybe, a way to begin again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to the talented [queerily_kai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerily_kai) for their kickass illustration and for bearing with my condensed writing schedule like a pro.
> 
> A thousand, million, billion thanks to [Red](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_b_rackham/profile) and [Lex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilostmyshoe/profile), who I basically always thank because they're basically always fantastic betas and friends, but they _really_ came through this time.

Natasha starts running in the breath after she wakes and sees the helicopter she’d fallen from fading into the horizon. She had landed on a flat roof, fortunately, and she bolts toward the fire escape at its edge, zigzagging to dodge the laser fire peppering the space around her. Something fast and hot ghosts along her left hip, but she pushes it out of mind, letting momentum carry her forward.

The stairs are rusted as hell, but the metal structure holds together as she rushes down, pausing only to gauge the number and distance of her pursuers. With only a story to go, though, her luck runs out. Two drones hover into her peripheral vision, their quadcopter blades silent above round chassis three feet wide. Natasha ducks the fire of the nearer one, then unloads what’s left of her magazine on the other. It wobbles but doesn’t fall—until more bullets pound into it from below. The faint crash is satisfying, but it doesn’t phase the remaining robot.

“Stay back—I got it!” a male voice shouts from the street. But the drone is too close to the fire escape for Natasha to wait.

Instead, she vaults off the railing, grabbing the machine’s grooved edges with her bare hands. It can’t shoot her now, and it can’t stay aloft with the weight of her below it. The muscles in her hands strain around the metal cylinder, but she hangs on as the drone tries to right itself. It loses altitude, and Natasha shifts her weight beneath it to unbalance it further. Her strategy works—when they’re close enough to the ground that she can land without breaking anything, she curls her body beneath it, slamming it into her knees and flexing just in time to land on her feet as it tumbles.

The drone crashes into pieces against the broken asphalt, a few yards from its partner. Natasha gasps for breath in the sudden silence, and then doubles over as pain radiates from her injured hip across her entire left side. Hands wrap around her shoulders, steadying her, and she looks up to see a tangle of dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and pale blue eyes. Her vision blurs, then clears, then blurs again, and she forces herself to breathe through the pain.

“Are you okay?” the same man asks, leaning toward her. “That was amazing, you—”

She squints, trying to focus on his face but failing. Before she can process a thought beyond how soft his lips look against day-old stubble, she passes out. The last thing she feels, besides the now-screaming pain, is a pair of strong arms catching her as she falls.

***

When Natasha comes to this time, her entire body tenses, sparking new waves of pain from her hip. She’s lying on a couch, and a massive tear in her leggings reveals a palm-sized laser burn, dark with gravel and burnt fabric from what’s left of her compression leggings. The afternoon’s action comes back to her in a flash—no wonder she fainted. That’s when she realizes the handsome stranger from earlier is kneeling by her hip. He’s wearing latex gloves, holding some kind of forceps, and leaning away, blinking at her expectantly.

“Who—where—” Her mouth feels dry and cottony. The man gestures towards a glass of water on the floor, just within her reach. She sips it slowly, nodding her thanks.

“There’s more if you need it—filtered, too, don’t worry,” he says.

Natasha is hardly the trusting type, but if he’d meant her any bodily harm, he’s already had ample opportunity. Except for…“My pants?”

He reddens. “Sorry—they were too tight to roll off enough that I could treat your burn. I figured I’d try to minimize, uh, taking your clothes off while you were unconscious, but that wound...”

“Thanks, I guess.” She gives it a closer look and wishes she hadn’t. “Pretty busted, huh?”

“Honestly, it probably feels—and looks—worse than it is. Do you mind if I…?”

Natasha nods again, head clearing rapidly even as bone-deep exhaustion sets in, and he returns his focus to her wound. “I’m not even sure it’s a second-degree burn, but they scorched enough of the surface of your skin to make for something nasty and painful, especially with whatever got mixed in. You should be healed in a couple of weeks, at most. Might have a scar, though.”

“Are you a doctor, or…?” She yawns again. The couch is worn and the same vague shade of gray that the city outside had been—not that she can see anything through the tinfoil-covered windows—but it’s soft, and she could do with some sleep before figuring out what the hell to do next.

“EMT, once,” he says, clicking the forceps between his fingers. “I was training to be a firefighter before, well, the world ended. You?”

“CrossFit instructor. And MMA.” She grits her teeth as he picks bits of gravel and burnt fabric out of her skin with quick, deft movements.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Well, a bit of everything, really—my best friend and I owned a gym. He taught all the weapons courses, I did the hand-to-hand stuff, and then we’d just add whatever else was trendy to keep people coming.” The talking is a good distraction from the lack of even local anesthesia.

“Nice.” A smile flickers across his features. He had pulled his hair into a bun at some point, giving her a better view of his face. His lips still look soft, and his eyes are kind.

“Were you here in Baltimore, or somewhere else?”

Natasha sits up on her elbows, setting her empty cup aside. “Philly. I was on Amtrak coming home from D.C. when the switch flipped and an army of flying Roombas decimated humanity. A group of us made it into the river near Havre de Grace and ended up settling over near St. Michaels eventually. Been there maybe…a year and a half, I think?”

“Smart. Breathe in on one, two,” he says, ripping something out of her wound. She doesn’t look closely. “I’ve just been here the whole time. Well, not _here_ -here—I found this empty apartment close to the water once things cleared out. But Baltimore. Figures that the Eastern Shore would be a good place for a big group to land, though—all those existing farms, bad cell service for the drones to boost off of, plenty of water around to scare them away. And more coastal than you’d be here.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Natasha looks up at the ceiling, keeping her breathing even as he sprays something on the mess of her hip. “Uh, I’m Natasha, by the way.”

“Bucky. And you can look now, I just need to put some gauze to cover it.” He begins taping a wide square of cotton to her side, pausing only to give her a quick smile and add, “Nice to meet you, Natasha.”

The way he says her name tickles something up her spine, but she ignores the sensation and instead yawns mightily, prompting another small grin from him.

“If you’re up for it,” Bucky says after a minute, finishing his handiwork and standing up, “We can find you new clothes tomorrow. Plus more food—I’ve got a few days of supplies here, but we’ll have to double it soon.”

“New? You have a mall or something nearby?”

He stretches and snaps off the gloves with a light chuckle. “Well, the Under Armour headquarters is like a mile from here. I’ve scavenged there a bunch; the women’s section is pretty endless.” He wanders around the countertop separating his living room from the small kitchen and returns with an unopened bottle of water and a cereal bar.

Natasha yawns again, eyelids drooping. “Athleisure it is then. Am I sleeping here, or, uh…?” As much as she doesn’t love the idea of sleeping with a stranger in the next room in a wholly unfamiliar place, she can’t see any other viable options. Her hip, swollen and throbbing, isn’t helping.

“Yeah, sorry. It’s, uh, probably better than the mattress I’ve got in there anyway. I like it for my back, but it’s kind of falling apart.” Bucky jerks his right thumb at a hallway by the kitchen. “Eat that, finish the water, get some sleep. We’ll figure out the rest in the morning. Bathroom’s that way if you need it, my bedroom’s on the right if you, um, need me. Okay?”

He’s trying hard not to spook her, Natasha realizes, and she’s filled with a sudden rush of gratitude in spite of herself, but he disappears into the bedroom before she can say anything. It’s mere minutes before she falls asleep anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

She wakes up to sunlight streaming through holes poked in the tinfoil window coverings above the couch. It’s a good solution, she thinks, peering through one—a way to shield their presence from the machines outside without wholly sacrificing natural light, and easily masked at night by regular blackout shades. Outside, she can see a small, scorched wharf, and the ruins of a city bent around the Patapsco River to form a C-shaped harbor. The buildings are crumbling at best—two years of mechanical war, human neglect, and natural elements have taken their toll in most places—but she can see how it might all have been charming, once.

There’s a detailed, hand-drawn map covering the wall to her left, and Natasha sits up and crawls across the couch for a closer look, relieved to discover that her hip pain has dulled into something tolerable. Bucky had been right—it wasn’t a deep wound, and her hip and thigh muscles feel more tired than injured. The rest of her feels reasonably rested and alert, and that brings more relief.

The map is a medley of crayon lines, with buildings and streets labeled for what looks like a radius of a good mile or so from the house marked HERE, which sits on the water not too far from the inside arc of the harbor. A few landmarks are labeled, and there are scribbles all over to connote everything from drone clusters to which buildings are ripe for scavenging.

Natasha studies it for a moment and then returns to the window. Any signage is long gone, but if she has her bearings right, the onetime Domino Sugar Factory that had been yesterday’s destination is just across the river. She sighs heavily before realizing how far away that is on foot. Unless he had risked a boat, Bucky had probably carried her unconscious body a good three miles.

Turning her attention to the kitchen, she struggles to her feet—a little stiff but perfectly mobile—for a closer look at the piles of cans and cellophane wrappers stacked on the counter.

“Morning,” Bucky says, and she jumps, but recovers quickly. “Good to see you’re up and moving. How’s the hip?”

“Better, I think.” Natasha makes herself meet his eyes. “Thank you, really. I don’t know what else I would’ve done yesterday.”

“Yeah, of course. Glad you’re okay.” He smiles, more relaxed than he had been last night, and it’s a good enough look on him that she finds the tension in her shoulders loosening. “There’s a bucket shower in there, if you want to rinse off a little or brush your teeth. It’s cold, and I’m gonna need you to keep the gauze dry, but—”

“Yes, please. And, uh…” She plucks at what had been the waistband of her leggings; the tear goes halfway down her thigh, which may make even just walking around awkward.

“I’ll find you something clean to wear for now,” he says. “And make breakfast. How do you feel about instant oatmeal? No milk, but I’ve got sugar and jam packets.”

Natasha’s stomach rumbles in response, and they share a small chuckle.

***

Twenty minutes later, her belly is full, her hair is blessedly clean, and her hip is moving fine, though it stings a bit against the gauze. Bucky’s spare sweatpants have drawstring that cinches tight around her waist, even though he’s got most of a foot and probably sixty pounds on her. His cache of ammunition, gathered from outdoor stores and police stations, had looked impressive, though in stocking up Natasha had stuck mostly to the smaller firearms she knows best.

Bucky leads her out of the apartment building, and Natasha follows him along cobblestone streets that turn into wider boulevards that arc around the river. They both have guns at the ready, but there’s no sign of drones. She’s survived this long by not getting comfortable anywhere or with anyone, but it would be almost easy to let that guard down now. The quiet feels like a salve.

“So, what brought you to Charm City?” Bucky asks, breaking the silence. “Literally, what? I didn’t see a boat yesterday, just your commotion over by the cruise terminal, and getting that far into the city...”

“Helicopter. We drew some fire, I fell. Got knocked out for a few minutes—Steve and Sam wouldn’t have left me behind unless they thought I was dead.”

“I’m impressed you had enough fuel to fly here from the Eastern Shore, but...why?”

Natasha winces. “We heard from some passersby that there was a big relay station in the harbor here, so the plan was to take it out.”

“Oh, in the Domino factory? That’s not a relay station.” Bucky whips around at a noise that turns out to be a lone, improbable seagull.

“Really? Shit.” She’s stranded and injured based on bad intelligence.

He shrugs, lowering his firearm to continue walking. “I mean, there’s signal activity coming out of it, but it’s actually a full-on factory. Taking it out would’ve been huge—if you could get close enough.”

Natasha groans. “That was the problem, it turned out. We couldn’t hide from their sensors well enough, and the factory was _covered_. Guess that was why.”

“You’re not the first to try,” he admits, gesturing for her to turn down a side street away from a pile of rubble the size of a minivan. “First with a ‘copter, maybe, but plenty of people tried stuff like that from the ground, especially early on. And, well…nothing worked. I’m pretty sure I’m the only person left within city limits at this point. Definitely the last one in the Inner Harbor here.” Natasha’s eyes go wide, and even though he can’t see her, he quickly adds, “Not that _everyone_ died attacking the factory. A lot did, but a lot got out, too. Just—yeah, it’s a working drone factory.”

With no reason not to, she decides to believe him. “So why are you still here?”

“Do you know how much a place like mine cost before? That’s a _condo building_ , doll,” he drawls, prompting a reluctant smile from her. “No, I’m kidding. Well, at first, once things quieted down a little, there were a bunch of us helping other people get out of range—hotwiring cars, tapping gas tanks, that kind of thing—and kind of figuring out the engineering to survive here in the meantime. Thus the water filtration, limited plumbing, lanterns, some propane to cook over…”

“That armory of yours?” His cozy, cluttered place makes more sense now.

“Yeah, that too. Everyone left, sooner or later, but I, uh…well, I figured I’d stick around for whoever else needed a hand. Lucky for you.”

“Very.” She squints at a series of brick buildings in the distance, wondering from this angle which is the one manufacturing nightmares as they speak.

Bucky hops nimbly onto what looks like half an overturned canoe and offers Natasha a hand up and over it, which she accepts, her hip throbbing a little with the exertion. “Anyway, a few groups have passed through in the last year since the Udakus left. But you’re probably the only one since maybe November or December.”

She stops in her tracks. “But it’s _April_. Or near enough. You spent the whole winter just…holed up alone in a dead city?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” He shrugs, gazing at the road ahead. “We’re just headed there, see the ‘UA’?”

“Uh huh,” Natasha has more questions, but she’s suddenly very distracted by the way the sunlight is somehow reflecting off of the hand he’s pointing with. “Your hand—”

“Oh. That.” Bucky pauses, too, and rolls up his sleeve from the wrist past his elbow, revealing that it’s not just his hand that appears to be made of silver metal but his whole arm. “Lost the whole thing in a freak accident at the fire academy, got an experimental prosthetic.” He pulls his collar wide, revealing metal fused to his scar-streaked shoulder, then lets it go and wiggles his fingers for emphasis. “Luke Skywalker-style.”

“That’s—that’s cool,” she says, feeling her face flushing as red as her hair. “I, uh, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or anything…”

He shrugs again, gaze on their destination, and motions for her to keep walking. “Don’t sweat it.”

Reserved as she’d been keeping herself, though, Natasha does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's apartment is located in the Fells Point neighborhood of Baltimore's Inner Harbor, off Aliceanna Street. The other locations our heroes visit, named and otherwise, are all real—although the [Domino Sugar Factory](http://www.baltimoresun.com/business/bs-bz-domino-sugar-shipment-20171019-story.html) just makes sugar...at the moment.
> 
> For those unfamiliar with the regional geography, Baltimore is the largest city in the state of Maryland, located on the east coast of the United States. Though Baltimore does have a river jutting into it, it's shielded from the Atlantic Ocean by the peninsula that comprises the Eastern Shore.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey, you mentioned hitting your head before—any chance you have a concussion?”

“Don’t think so.” Natasha looks up from packing her brand-new wicking tops into a dusty backpack. “I had a few minor ones as a kid; I know the feeling. And I don’t even have a headache now; I think the second passing-out was just from pain or exhaustion or both.”

“That’s good. Still, you should be careful…” He falls silent again, and she waits for him to ask a follow-up question. Instead, he says, “Hey, um, about my arm…”

“Really, I shouldn’t have asked—it’s not my business.” She glances at Bucky, but he doesn’t make eye contact, and she turns to look for leggings untouched by laser burns or dull scissors.

He shifts his weight back and forth a few times before speaking again. “It’s just—I got it right before the switch flipped. I was just about done with PT and it, uh…well, it turned out it was the same manufacturer as the drones. Or a subsidiary, anyway.”

Natasha freezes. Had she been right to be suspicious? “So—what does that mean in practical terms?” She forces herself to sound more nervous than accusatory, but it’s a near thing.

“Not—it doesn’t, like, control me or anything. It just…it was emitting a signal on the same frequency the drones used, early on. Basically turned me into a homing beacon for them.”

“ _Bozhe moi_ ,” she whispers. The slaughter in the towns near the train she had been on two years earlier was bad enough, by sheer virtue of having decent cell-phone service, which boosted the drone’s range. To be in a dense city, only a mile or two from a factory, basically summoning the machines? She can almost smell the blood and burnt flesh. “But today they haven’t—”

“Yeah, so, one of the people who was here early on, Shuri…she scrambled the signal somehow. Not soon enough to avoid—well. But pretty quick. Anyway, now it’s like—there’s still a signal, but less of one, and the buildings help dampen it, too. So… you’re probably safe with me now—I haven’t gotten anyone hurt since then—but, uh, I thought you should know. In case you want to, I don’t know, find somewhere else to go, or…”

“Where else would I possibly…” Natasha considers her options briefly, but there really aren’t many—she doesn’t know the city, or the way back to the Eastern Shore. Even if she did, she would also need food, ammunition, and medical care, not to mention a vehicle, and Bucky offers most of those already. “No, I think I’d rather take my chances with you, if you don’t mind an indefinite houseguest who’s been known to hog what little hot water there is.” Decision made, she zips her bag of new clothes and returns to the store’s entrance, offering Bucky as friendly a smile as she can muster.

He smiles back in evident relief. “I don’t mind. It’s nice not to be alone.”

***

They spend the rest of the day scavenging, breaking for a lunch of convenience-store beef jerky and chips. They don’t converse much, besides basic small talk, but it’s a more comfortable silence than the morning’s had been, and Natasha’s glad to concentrate on getting her bearings and not straining her injured hip too much.

Out of habit, she also pays close attention to their wanderings, building a mental map that she can compare to the one in the apartment, but it’s largely unnecessary—Bucky seems to know every back alley and hole-in-the-wall storefront by heart. He directs her under rooftop overhangs shielding them that much more from any overhead assaults, zigzags through the city grid to avoid any patrolling machines, and takes down the only drone they see in two shots.

She’s impressed, even if she still doesn’t quite know what to make of him.

As the sun starts to set, he steers them back to his apartment, and Natasha unloads their assorted propane cylinders, cans of vegetables, and less-perishable foodstuffs into the mostly empty kitchen cabinets while Bucky marks off their stops on his map. She waits until he’s done to ask the question that’s niggled at her since the morning.

“Bucky, how did your friends get out of here last year?”

He shrugs, something she’s beginning to realize is a nervous tic of his. “They got lucky, mainly—found cars that still worked, where the gas hadn’t gone stale. The last group I helped out, back in the late fall, we found an electric car and jury-rigged one of my generators in the basement to charge it. There aren’t many of those, but…we can start looking if you want.” He returns to the map and taps on a few blocks. “We eliminated these garages, and anything on the street is probably a nonstarter unless you get lucky, but…yeah, I know a few lots further out to try. St. Michaels is probably only a couple of hours from here, assuming the bridge is still standing.”

“Thanks,” she says, which is starting to become a habit of hers, at least with him. “You’re a great host, it’s just—I have people back there, and they think I’m dead.”

“No, of course,” he says, a little too quickly. “We’ll find you something.”

Natasha nods and decides it’s time to change the subject. “Ever had real Russian borscht? I got a family recipe that’ll knock your socks off, assuming you like beets.” She holds up a couple of cans from the day’s takings.

He brightens at that. “Sure, go nuts. Your family’s Russian?”

“They were, anyway.” It’s her turn to shrug before she starts gathering up the beef stock, vegetables, and limited spices scattered around the kitchen. “I was born here, but, you know, you make the same thing enough times and it sticks.”

“Can I help at all?” When she shakes her head, he flops onto the couch. “Do you know what happened to your family after the switch flipped? I don’t want to pry, but…”

Natasha shakes her head again. “It was just my parents, and they weren’t even in the country.”

“Vacation?”

“No, nothing like that. They immigrated here illegally, had me, were shitty parents and even shittier criminals, got deported—but I had U.S. citizenship, so I ended up in the foster system as a teenager. Probably better for me, on the whole—no one I really got attached to, but no real horror stories like you hear, either.”

“Thus the interest in martial arts?”

“Yeah, exactly.” She locates a can opener and goes to work. “That’s—that’s kind of why I want to make sure I get back. I’ve been on my own most of life, and it’s like—I found _people_ , you know? It’s kind of sad that it took a robot apocalypse, I guess, but…it’s better than being alone, even if it’s crowded and pretty regimented.”

“I know the feeling.” Bucky unearths a beanbag from the couch cushions and starts idly tossing it in the air. “Being on my own, obviously…but it’s also sort of like, most people you meet now, everyone’s kind of on the same team.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Natasha wrinkles her nose, realizing that she’ll have to substitute more ingredients than she’d hoped. “Okay, this may not be your _babushka_ ’s soup, but it’ll be something.”

He misses the beanbag and it lands on his face, making them both chuckle. “Nice change from the whatever-is-handy goulashes I’ve been making. Once the spices go bad, it’s all over.”

“You’ve really been living on the edge,” she observes dryly, and he laughs again. The stress and loneliness melt away from his features, and she’s struck by the same little shiver as the night before.

When he excuses himself to go shave, she watches him leave longer than she means to and doesn’t realize she’s biting her lip a little until he closes the bathroom door. She does it again when he emerges ten minutes later, clean-shaven and with his hair cropped to about the length of her bob. If she can’t quite stop glancing at him over dinner—the camping-lantern lighting does wonders for those cheekbones—he doesn’t seem to mind.


	4. Chapter 4

With the air between them a little clearer, Natasha’s second day in Baltimore feels lighter than the first. Bucky shows her the day’s walking route on the wall—parking garages, camping-supply stores, grocers—and arms her with a surprisingly powerful water pistol, as well as the more customary guns. “You might as well try one out. They’re good in a pinch, or a close-up, since they’re not waterproof,” he explains.

“Or if you just run out of bullets,” she rejoins. He snorts and adds something called the Cop Shop to their route.

“How long do you think you can last here? Or—that we can?” she ventures a few hours later, when they’re on the third level of a garage that seems to house mostly modest sedans and tricked-out Hummers. “Your scavenging system is pretty thorough, but at some point all that stuff’s either gonna expire or run out, right?”

“Or my luck in not getting shot will.” Bucky peers at what turns out to be a Toyota rather than a Tesla and sighs. “But I have no idea, to be honest—I haven’t had to move too far out yet to get what I need. I’ve only even been north as far as Johns Hopkins University a couple of times.”

“And you haven’t tried to leave?” Natasha can understand why he’d have chosen to stay put, given his evident conflicted feelings about his prosthetic limb, and she’s grown to appreciate the downsides of a crowded homestead. But Bucky’s total isolation still seems extreme, especially if he knows how to get out.

He shrugs and follows her up the stairs to the roof of the garage to check the cars there. “It’s home, at this point. And I don’t want to risk attracting drones wherever I go. Anyway, like I said, you really aren’t the only one to wander through—someone’s gotta help you people. Might as well be me; I know the drill.”

“I meant to ask about that,” she says, scanning the rows of vehicles. “Are you from here? Or you’ve just been wandering around every day for two years?”

“Close—Annapolis.” He moves toward a black sedan that turns out to be another Toyota. “Military brat. Moved to the closest big city the first chance I got. So I’ve been living around here most of my life, and Baltimore specifically…maybe a decade or so.”

“Cool.” There’s not a single electric car in the garage, it turns out, and being exposed and up high like this gives her some unease. But the view from the roof is nice, and the company is good.

Bucky joins her at the railing and points toward the horizon. “Not that you can see it from here, but Annapolis is that way. You’d drive through it to get to St. Michaels. And Philly’s over there.” He turns her by the shoulders about ninety degrees to the left. While Natasha usually isn’t a fan of other people’s hands on her, her shoulders feel a little chilly when he removes them.

“You know, I’d never even been here before,” she admits. “To Baltimore, I mean, or really anywhere in Maryland besides the airport. I guess it’s a different landscape now, obviously, but this…this is still really something.”

“Kind of desolate, huh?” He peers over the edge of the roof at the broken sidewalks and empty stoops.

“No, actually, I think it’s kind of beautiful.” Natasha nudges him with her elbow, and he follows her gaze over the rowhouses and cobblestones toward the water. “It’s like we’re the only people in the world.”

Bucky glances at her, surprised. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“I don’t mean that there’s no one else out there, only…well, I’ve spent the last two years living in essentially a dense farming commune. It’s good, the people are good, but—everyone’s on top of each other, there are schedules and duty rosters and rations, it’s…intense, sometimes. I don’t know that I’d choose this _forever_ , but I guess what I mean is, it isn’t so bad. Kind of freeing, even. There’s no one else to worry about, no one else to compete with.”

“It just survival,” he says quietly, as if trying to convince himself. “People don’t understand, but…”

“No, I get it. I do.” She nudges him again, and this time he meets her eyes. “And you don’t want to hurt anyone—you’re a rescue worker, right? So you do what you can to help.”

The air between them crackles with electricity, and before she can react to how he’s looking at her, a swarm of drones rises from below and starts shooting.

Natasha drops and rolls behind the closest vehicle, unloading her firearm on the nearest until it crashes down. She runs out of bullets on her second target and switches to a Taser from the Cop Shop, which is effective but single-use. All she has left is the water gun, but the range isn’t close enough for how slow it shoots—the drones she’s aiming at can just dodge it. The jerky movements throw their aim off, but there are still several in the air. She half-crawls as she dashes between cars, narrowly avoiding direct hits but scraping her bad hip against the ground as she scrabbles for extra ammunition in her pack or holster.

That’s when she catches sight of Bucky, and her jaw goes slack. He’s firing his semiautomatic one-handed, knocking down machine after machine with a few shots each—impressive on its own, given the kickback on a gun that big. But he’s also using his left arm, the metal one, to deflect fire from the drones, moving so fast she can barely track his movements.

Somehow, he pauses long enough to toss a few more Taser cartridges in her general direction from a pocket in his cargo pants; Natasha reloads and fires each of them in quick succession. By the time she’s out, the rooftop is silent again. Bucky slings his rifle around to his back and grabs her hand in one fluid motion, and she follows him down two flights of stairs, where they wait, unspeaking and breathing heavily, until the coast seems clear.

***

“I’m sorry,” Bucky mutters a few hours later, after they’ve walked in silence, guns aloft and nerves on edge, since leaving the garage. “I must’ve been high enough up there that they could—”

Natasha rolls her eyes, not that he’s looking. “ _We_ were high up, in the open, and we let our guard down. _We_ have both survived this thing long enough to know better.”

“Even so—”

“ _You_ saved my ass, which I, for one, appreciate,” she continues. “We’re exposed any time we leave that apartment, with or without your Ultronics tech.”

He sighs. “I know, I know. And obviously you can take care of yourself either way. I just…I’m tired, I guess. Of all this. But there’s no real end in sight.”

“Yeah, sorry. We did try.” Natasha bites the inside of her cheek, thinking. “Hey, what do you do around here when you’re not scavenging or fighting-slash-running for your life?”

“Uh…” The question actually gets him to look at her, and they pause under a sturdy awning for cover. “Spent a lot of the winter reading—mostly how-to books, so I could repair stuff that broke and keep the generators working. But some fiction, too…quite a few Russian novels, actually. Those seemed appropriate when it was snowing.”

“Ha!”

He smiles at her amusement. “Yeah, well. Beyond that...well, there’re a handful of gyms around here. None of the machines work, obviously, but sometimes I go lift or do some calisthenics or whatever. Gotta stay fit when fighting-slash-running for your life, right?”

“Definitely,” she nods. “Why don’t we go to one of those? We’ve hit most of the stops you pegged for today, it won’t be dark for a while longer, and it’d get us indoors.”

“Sure, yeah.” He points to the corner they’d just passed. “There’s actually a boxing gym over that way—nothing fancy, I don’t know what kind of setup you had before, but…”

Natasha lights up, which gets a proper chuckle out of Bucky, and they head down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to being the state capital of Maryland, [Annapolis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Annapolis,_Maryland) is also home to the United States Naval Academy.


	5. Chapter 5

The gym turns out to comprise one big room, with an intact ring, a weight rack, speed bags, and not much else. It’s covered in dust, and any extra equipment is likely in the locked cabinets toward the back. Bucky wanders around, propping mats up to block the windows.

Natasha can’t resist a little excitement over something so reminiscent of her old life, and she climbs into the ring barefoot, testing the condition of the ropes and the floor with a satisfied grin. She flips into a handstand, twisting down into a split then sweeping her legs around to kip up. “Still got it.”

“I thought you said martial arts, not gymnastics.” Bucky throws a couple of punches to make his point. His form is solid, and his speed is downright impressive, even given his performance earlier.

She motions for him to come into the ring, and he ducks under the ropes to join her. “I said a bit of everything. Where do you think I learned how to shoot?” She circles him briefly, nudging him into a loose, wide squat. “Hold still for a sec, and don’t lock your knees.”

“Okay, but what—” He obeys but looks over his shoulder at where she’s backed up.

Without reply, Natasha launches herself off the ropes, closing the distance between them in a few steps at a run. She moves fast and light enough to spring into the air, catch his head between her thighs, and cartwheel her legs down. He hits the floor with a gasp, winded but uninjured, as she intended.

She grins down at him from where she had landed in a comfortable fighting stance. “After you catch your breath, we can throw some actual punches if you want. But I’ve been known to fight _dirty_.”

He sits up and coughs. “That’s one way to put it. You could kill a man with that move.”

“Haven’t managed to do _that_ yet,” Natasha admits, undoing her ponytail and flipping her hair forward to finger-comb it back into submission. “Although I did send my foster sister Yelena to the hospital once.”

“Did she deserve it?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Bucky laughs, still a little breathless. “Maybe just show me how you crushed that drone with your bare hands the other day.”

***

They return to the apartment just before sunset, the stress from earlier gone in a wash of endorphins and a pleasant muscle soreness she hasn’t felt in far too long. Natasha follows Bucky up the short flight of stairs, admiring how his clothes shift along thick muscles she hadn’t noticed yesterday.

Once they’ve unloaded the day’s takings, Natasha attempts a basic vegetable stir-fry over one of several camp stoves, while Bucky toys with another to defrost half a dozen dinner rolls, ending up with round, icy toast.

“That was fun, this afternoon,” he admits. “You’ve got some _moves_.”

“Thanks,” she replies around a mouthful of carrots. “It _was_ fun—all anyone’s cared about the last few years is riflery, really. I’ve missed actually getting to use my _body_ like that.”

If he notices her emphasis, he doesn’t show it. “No jiu-jitsu on the farm, huh?”

“Not really, no.” She tilts her head, stretching a taut spot on her neck. “There’s so many people, and the focus is just always survival. Beyond the machines, even, just the day-to-day farming and stuff, and everyone in close quarters, with jobs to do…it’s just nice to kind of have a break, you know?”

“Vacation in an almost literal ghost town, chaperoned by a handicapped hermit? Your taste in getaways needs work. Especially coming from St. Michaels, of all places.”

She rolls her eyes again, and this time he sees it and makes a face. “You’re hardly impaired, if earlier was any indication.”

“The arm does have its benefits, I guess.” He collects their empty plates and drops them in a bucket of soapy filtered water under the sink. “Can I ask you a weird favor?”

“Fire away,” Natasha says, stretching out on the floor and feeling a few joints pop.

“Would you mind, uh, cutting my hair? It’s been getting in my face all day and, well, any shorter than this, and it’s hard to hack it off looking in a mirror. Other than shaving it completely…”

She laughs at the mental image. “Yeah, of course. No promises on style, though.”

He unearths a pair of scissors from somewhere and a few minutes later sits on the floor with a towel around his neck and shoulders. Natasha perches on the couch behind him, snipping carefully.

“So, why lose the bun in the first place?”

He shrugs, almost jostling her forearm. “Oh, it grew out over the winter, and no one else was around. But, you know, I was raised to look nice for company.”

“Aw,” she murmurs. “I’m flattered, really. Lean your head forward for a sec?”

“Uh huh.” Bucky tucks his chin down as she clips her way up the back of his neck. “So…do you have one of those crazy-long Russian names? I’ve been curious since conquering Tolstoy a few months ago if that’s still a thing.”

“A la _Pyotr Kirillovich Bezukhov_?” Natasha asks, overdoing the accent to make him laugh. “I was always partial to _War and Peace_ , myself. And yes— _Natalia Alianovna Romanova_.” This time, she pronounces it as her parents had—lilting, but with an undercurrent of something fierce.

“Cool,” he replies, sounding like he means it. “Is that what it says on your birth certificate?”

“Bold question from someone named ‘Bucky,’” she retorts. “But no, legally, I’m just plain Natasha Romanoff. Yes, like the tsar, no relation…that I know of.”

“Well, ‘Bucky’ isn’t my legal name,” he admits, scooting forward to avoid her scissors as he turns to face her with a wry smile. His too-long hair sticks out a little on one side. “James Buchanan Barnes, at your service. Yes, like the president, also no relation.”

They shake hands with a silly formality, and he sits back between her knees to let her finish. The back of his neck is flushed, she notices, and the observation makes her redden a little—and grateful that he can’t see.

“Let’s see if I can do the same thing on the other half,” she mutters, mostly to herself, and he laughs outright.

Later, when she drifts off to sleep, alone on the same couch, the cushions still smell like him, earthy and warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> St. Michaels is a _really_ nice place to vacation.
> 
> Natasha's [appreciation for the Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy](http://fybw.org/post/17249984153/natasha-i-discovered-the-writer-leo-tolstoy-in)—and _War and Peace_ in particular—is established in the comics.


	6. Chapter 6

They loop in a different direction the next morning, with an unspoken agreement to avoid parking garages. Bucky steers them first to another outdoors store a ways out for more ammunition, then a library, and finally back toward the harbor to a barre studio. The street-level windows are shattered and the mirrors coated in a thick layer of ash, but the baskets of paraphernalia by the door are untouched.

Natasha merrily raids the colorful supply of resistance bands and straps the most intact yoga mat she can find to her pack. “To take back with me,” she explains, immediately regretting the look her comment brings to his face, even as he quietly grabs another mat and a small pair of rubber-coated hand weights for himself. “Whenever, I mean.”

Bucky shrugs, stepping carefully around the glass shards as they return to the sidewalk under an overcast sky. “There’s gotta be another Prius or something _somewhere_ in the 410.”

“We can look another day,” she says quickly, and he nods. “I—I do want to go back at some point, but I’m in no rush. Really.”

“Whatever you say,” he replies, squinting up at the thick clouds obscuring the afternoon sun. “Oh, fuck.”

Natasha looks in the direction he is and groans at the distant swarm of drones painting a dark streak against the pale sky. “They’re definitely moving in this direction, but not _that_ fast. And they’re still a ways out.”

Bucky nods. “So probably a patrol, not an attack.”

“Think we can make a run for it, or shelter in place?” She’s got a good lay of the land at this point, but he’s still the expert.

“I think we can make it back, but…”

“Head down, eyes up, run like hell?” She hefts her rifle—one of his, technically, but it’s loaded with armor-piercing bullets, which is more than the one she’d brought from the Eastern Shore can handle.

“Exactly.”

She follows him, swift and silent, as they sprint back toward the apartment. It’s not quite a mile, but the zigzagging route means their view of the swarm is partially obscured at different angles, making the imminence of the danger hard to gauge.

With two blocks to go, Bucky pauses for half a breath in an intersection, looking up to check the drones’ position, but there’s no sign of them. Natasha stands back-to-back with him, checking from other angles. They spot the machines at the same time—nearly a dozen of them, a block away, hovering between buildings a few yards above the street and picking up speed.

“ _Blyat_!” Natasha starts firing, the new bullets proving far more potent than her regular ones. A few well-placed shots can take down a whole drone, and they’re close enough that she can effectively aim for the quadcopter or the laser guns. Bucky, too, lets out a string of curses and a wave of bullets, diving in front of her to deflect some of the fire with his arm.

Together, they take out about half of the swarm, but the rest continue to approach, shooting with increasing rapidity. Natasha narrowly dodges a burst that nearly catches her already-burnt hip; Bucky gives up on deflecting and starts shooting with a second semiautomatic she hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying all day.

“We need a plan B!” he shouts, tossing aside one of the guns, presumably empty, and grabbing a smaller revolver from his thigh holster. “I don’t have any more firearms, and they’re not going to give us time to reload!”

 

“We can’t turn our backs to run!”

“They’re getting too close to—”

“Shit,” Natasha groans, because he’s right. She slings her rifle by its strap around to her back and sprints toward the machines, ducking laser fire.

Bucky screams, “Nat, no, what are you _doing_ ‽”

“Plan B!” she shouts, and launches a spinning kick at the nearest drone, sending it careening into the brick façade of a rowhouse.

Two more machines crash down—Bucky’s doing—and Natasha jumps to grab another, bringing up her right knee as she pulls the drone down. The thing shatters on contact. She’ll have bruises tomorrow, and the scabs on her burn tug painfully, but there are only two more robots, and she still has ammunition left.

As she glances at Bucky to gauge his status, though, a new swarm appears, three blocks away and headed right for them. “No, no, no!” he cries, but before either can begin to formulate a plan C, a clap of thunder shakes through the air, and the sky almost immediately flashes with lightning.

The drones emit a unified, high-pitched shrieking noise and bolt, presumably toward their factory or another facility for shelter, but a few get caught in the swift downpour. Knowing they aren’t waterproof is one thing; seeing the rain fell the quadcopters and short-circuit the machines on contact is another.

There’s beauty in the rapid destruction, and Natasha laughs, staring up at the roiling cloudburst that had just saved their lives.

Bucky rushes to her side, ignoring the water soaking through their clothes and gear. “Are you okay? How did you—that was _insane_.”

“That was almost _fun_ ,” she grins. “Emphasis on the ‘almost,’ but—”

“We were _so fucked_ —and you—you are _amazing_.” His eyes move rapidly, checking her for injuries, but his smile matches hers. He skids to a stop about half a foot away, and they stare at each other for a long moment, panting and giddy.

That their drenched clothes leave little to the imagination doesn’t escape Natasha’s notice, and the way his gaze dances over her body suggests Bucky’s noticed, too. His mouth falls partway open, moving slightly like he wasn’t quite prepared to form words with it just yet.

“Nat—Natasha,” he whispers, barely audible over the storm. “Natalia.”

Breathless, she stares at his lips for a second—they still look so soft—and glances up to meet his eyes. Lightning flashes again, and she takes it as a cue, springing at him to cup his face in her hands. She kisses him before either of them can second-guess it.

Bucky lets out a little moan and wraps his arms around her, pulling their bodies flush against each other. The rain pounds down around them, and she leans into to him, tangling her hands in his hair as his skim down her back. His lips are soft as she imagined, but he kisses hard, and her every nerve hums in resonance with the electric air.

Another clap of thunder startles them into jumping apart. “Apartment?” Bucky breathes, reaching for her hand like she might vanish if he’s not touching her.

“I kind of like the rain,” she says with a wry smile. “The way it sounds, the way the air feels…” The wind picks up just then, and another bolt lights up the street around them. “But we can do it your way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit again to the talented [queerily_kai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerily_kai) for the artwork!


	7. Chapter 7

They make it into the apartment building and about halfway up the stairs before he’s pressing her into the wall, kissing with just a slip of tongue. Natasha hooks her legs around his hips, pressing as close to him as she can manage though their dripping clothing. The motion tugs at her still-healing wound again, and she can feel the gauze shifting under her leggings, but she can’t seem to care much about the isolated discomfort.

Bucky grunts and shifts, cupping her ass with both hands to carry her upstairs. She lowers her legs once they stumble into the apartment, and he pauses to glance at the couch. “You know,” she interjects, “I still haven’t actually seen your bedroom.”

He grins, and she crisscrosses her arms to grab her shirt hem and yank the whole thing off, followed promptly by the boots she had forgotten she was still wearing. Like everything else, they’re soaked, and a puddle starts to form where she tosses her clothing, but Bucky ignores any potential water damage and follows suit, chucking his boots next to hers.

Natasha gasps audibly when he takes his shirt off; months of canned vegetables and gym routines have left hardly a spare ounce on him, only hard muscle. He glances down, flushing with self-consciousness, and she realizes he’s looking at his left arm, not his abs. The silver gleams in the dimming light as the plating shifts silently with each slight movement; it fuses with his shoulder in a burst of scar tissue, and the whole effect is mesmerizing.

He doesn’t flinch as she runs her hands up his sides and rises on her tiptoes to kiss him again, gently this time, but he looks genuinely surprised when she lightly taps one of the dark pink lines raised against his skin.

“Is this okay?” she asks, settling the other hand on the nape of his neck. “If it hurts, or the nerve endings are weird—”

“Oh, uh, they are, um, a little,” Bucky says. “But I don’t mind—it—it’s _you_.”

She has to kiss him for that, and he smiles into her mouth while reaching for the waistband of her pants. They pause again to shuck those before he leads her into the bedroom.

It’s sparse, which isn’t surprising, with a thick mattress on the floor plus a stack of books and a lantern serving as a nightstand. The linens are white and gray and completely unremarkable, but Natasha has never wanted to be _in_ a bed so badly. They both land on the mattress, bouncing slightly in the process, and she rolls on top of him, straddling his hips.

He laughs, briefly, and looks up at her with something like awe. She’s still wearing a decidedly uninteresting and very damp black sports bra, so he can’t be reacting to the visual. “What?”

“Just—I don’t know, a few days ago, you literally fell out of the sky, into my arms—”

“Give or take some rooftop chase scenes…”

“Yeah, but just—of all the people, it was _you_ , and now we’re...” He settles his hands about her waist, fingers splayed against her skin, and she leans down to kiss him again. “It’s—it’s not just me, right?”

“No,” Natasha murmurs. “It’s fast, maybe, but who cares? We’re the only people in the world right now, remember?”

He works his fingers under the band of her bra, carefully prying it off. “Yeah. It’s not really _funny_ , I guess, but it’s…something.”

Sitting up, Natasha shakes the bra off over her head and slingshots it into a corner, then settles back down against his skin. “ _You’re_ really something.”

The rain pounds against the window as Bucky kisses her again, first on the mouth and then working his way down her neck, while his fingers trace lazy circles along her still-wet back. Natasha shifts forward, bracing her hands against his chest with a happy sigh; his tongue against her nipple is light and quick. The shiver up her spine unfurls into a wave of joy so deep that Natasha abruptly tilts her head down to kiss him. Bucky follows her lead, tightening an arm around her waist while his free hand moves to her nearest breast. The metal is slightly cool on her flushed skin, and she covers his hand with hers, urging him to continue. When Natasha reaches for the waistband of his boxers, though, he stiffens.

“Nat?” She hums in response, nipping at his neck and hoping he’s just nervous or something similar. “I, uh—I don’t have any protection. We could go look, but stuff’s probably expired, or…”

“I’m sterile,” she replies, not hiding her disinterest in talking about it. Instead, she runs her fingertips along his rear, prompting him to resume his own ministrations. “It’s a long story. But unless you have a disease or something, which I do _not_ …”

“No, nothing to report. Except that you—you may have the most incredible naked body I think I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ll take that,” she grins, turning around to tug off his boxers. “And, same to you.”

Bucky’s blush covers his face and neck, but, rather than shy away, he switches hands, using the flesh one against her other breast and working his metal fingers between her legs. Natasha moans as she moves against his palm, because she wants to and there’s no one to hear. His face breaks into a grin at that, as big and unrestrained as she’s seen on him, and she gasps at the sudden onset of an orgasm. Bucky quickens his movements, and she cries out in indistinct pleasure.

Before Natasha comes completely off the rush of her own ecstasy, Bucky holds her uninjured hip and maneuvers himself into her. “ _Chyort voz'mi_ ,” she groans and, ignoring the strain on her burn, sits up to ride him hard. Bucky quickens their pace, his mouth and free hand working at her breasts.

His whole body jerks when he climaxes, making Natasha gasp at the sudden change in rhythm. She moves her hips faster, coming a second time with another long moan while he goes boneless beneath her.

The rain becomes audible again as they both gasp for breath. Natasha flops, sweaty and spent, onto his chest, smiling so broadly that she can’t help laughing a little. Bucky kisses her temple and ruffles her wet hair, very little of which is still tied in her original ponytail. Natasha tucks her face into his shoulder, planting a couple of light kisses along the scarred ridges before stilling. Bucky runs a thumb across her cheek affectionately.

“What now?” She asks after several minutes, turning her head just enough to be able to see his face.

He looks almost like a different person, with the stress of the day washed away, and he suggests, “Shower, then dinner? Maybe hang stuff up to dry before tomorrow…”

“You say that like we might actually put clothes back _on_ , James.”

He raises an eyebrow, but he’s smiling. “Nobody’s called me that since grade school…Natalia.”

“I am _not_ ,” Natasha retorts, “going to scream the name ‘Bucky’ the next time we do this.”

“So, there’s a next time?”

She pushes herself up, bracing her hands against his chest as she slides off of him. “If it’s anything like the first time, I’d hope there would be several.”


	8. Chapter 8

They make love again before falling asleep in a tangle of sweaty limbs, so Natasha is surprised to wake up alone the following morning. Wrapped in a sheet, she wanders into the kitchen, where she finds Bucky, clad only in boxers, leaning intently over one of the camp stoves.

“Are those pancakes?”

He jumps, nearly dropping a spatula into the pan of batter. “Hey! Yes. Vegan mix—nothing too perishable, just add oil and water.”

“You’ve been holding out on me, James!” Natasha settles on the couch, letting the sheet flutter around her and enjoying the sweet smile her saying his name brings. “I thought those energy bars were our only breakfast option.”

“Yeah, well, I just remembered I had it, to be honest. I’d been saving it for a special occasion, and I figured…”

“This counts,” she agrees. “Maple syrup?”

He tosses a glass bottle to her with his free hand; luckily, Natasha catches it. “The genuine article, none of that corn syrup crap.”

“Wow, if I’d only known there was real maple syrup a few days ago…”

Bucky makes a face, switching off the stove. “I _could_ eat all these myself, you know.” He joins her on the couch and trades a plate of finished pancakes for a kiss.

They eat in comfortable silence; the pancakes are warm and surprisingly good despite the lack of milk and eggs, and Natasha has trouble recalling the last time she’s felt this relaxed or content since the world had ended. When she says as much, Bucky leans into her without a word, resting his head on her bare shoulder in quiet agreement.

“So, what’s up for today? You think we really have more to scavenge, or can we take a break?” she asks a few minutes later. “On the one hand, I can definitely think of a few things we could do here; on the other hand, this place is so humid from yesterday that we might have to venture forth.”

“We should be okay on supplies for at least a few days,” Bucky muses. “But actually, if you’re up for it, I do have an idea.”

“Ooh, what?” Natasha takes both plates back to the kitchen to soak.

“It’s a couple of miles from here—just around to the other side of the harbor, actually, but I don’t think it’s worth risking a boat ride to get there faster.”

“But what is _it_?”

“A surprise, that’s what.”

***

An hour or so later, with no sign of drones, Bucky leads Natasha over a small hill that might have been grassy once and pauses, letting her take in the view of a short row of industrial-looking brick buildings. Two of them look as dirty and damaged as anything else in the city, but the third is half-covered in a rainbow of mirrors and mosaic tiles, washed clean by the rain. The building has its share of external damage, too, but the mirrors shine in the sunlight with a simple elegance that Natasha hadn’t thought was possible anymore.

“What is it?” She sounds more awed than she had realized.

“A museum,” he says, a swell of joy threatening to burst out of him. “It was all folk art and stuff like that—a lot of local artists. Most of it’s long gone, but…well, you’ll see. Come on.”

He reaches for her hand, and they dash across the parking lot and into the mirrored building before their presence outdoors is noticed. She follows Bucky up a ramp and past what might have been a gift shop before its ceiling caved in; he stops her and covers her eyes before guiding her forward. When they stop again, he tilts her face up before uncovering it.

They stand at the foot of a grand, swirling staircase that ascends a few levels toward a large skylight. The stairs look less than safe, and the skylight is broken, but those details are unremarkable. In the center of the space, hanging from some seemingly undamaged mechanism, is a life-sized bronze mannequin, enveloped by a pair of huge mirrored wings, cut through with streaks of color. The rain from the night before still sparkles on the glass and pools in the concave curve of one wing; the sun, now shining unfettered through the roof, lights up the whole piece, reflecting rainbows onto the bare concrete walls.

It’s impossible to tell whether the figure is soaring or falling; perhaps the rigging that keeps him aloft had helped him do both, once. Natasha doesn’t even gasp at the sight; it simply takes her breath away.

“This is…how is this still _here_?” she whispers. There’s no one to hear them, but the space feels like it demands a certain reverence.

“No idea,” Bucky murmurs, hugging her from behind and looking up. “A miracle, maybe. I never came here before, but now…”

“You take all your strays here?” Natasha jokes.

He shakes his head, nuzzling her neck briefly. “No, you’re the only one. I stumbled in here this winter, when I was on my own—there was snow everywhere, and it was like—like someone had left it here for me, almost. I’ve been back a few times, just when I want to feel…”

“Happy?” The sculpture sways a little from a breeze above, making it look like the figure is mid-swoop.

“Hopeful.” Bucky breathes in deeply and closes his eyes, facing up to the heavens. “I don’t know what this was originally, and he’s probably supposed to be falling. Maybe. But I just…I think, what if he’s flying, you know? I think maybe he is.”

The wind shakes the rigging again, and a few drops of water cascade to the floor below. Natasha turns to face Bucky, clasping her hands behind his neck so he looks back down at her. “I do, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The museum here is real—it's the [American Visionary Art Museum](http://www.avam.org/), and I highly recommend a visit if you find yourself in Charm City. Their collection is pretty amazing, as is [the main building's singular exterior](https://www.pangeare.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/sites/1984/2018/01/wpid-27143-American-Visionary-Art-Museum.jpg).
> 
> The sculpture, which does gently move in its current installation, is [Black Icarus](http://memetician.blogspot.com/2008/10/black-icarus-by-andrew-logan.html) by British artist [Andrew Logan](http://www.avam.org/our-visionaries/andrew-logan.shtml).


	9. Chapter 9

A few days pass, then a few more. The weeks slip by, and every time it rains Natasha feels herself coming back to life a little more.

Bucky seems to feel much the same; the creases worn into his face by months alone start to fade, and he starts finding ways to show her his city as it had been. The destruction and neglect are inescapable, but as they wander among neighborhoods and historic sites and even another museum or two, she learns to see the character and odd beauty that had drawn him to stay in this place, beyond his sense of duty or guilt. And she sees the quick thinking and wry humor that have kept him sane—and that keep her grounded, too.

In return, he learns _her_. She tells him about childhood ballet lessons and the string of teenage shoplifting incidents that she’s never admitted to anyone. They discover a mutual love for homemade pierogies and grade-school science fairs—though she had liked coding and he preferred hardware. He picks up her hand-to-hand moves, even if most of them are useless in their current world, and laughs when she admits to having only gotten into Sil Lim Tau at the behest of an ex-boyfriend who’d fancied himself a ninja.

There is survival, to be sure, and that means scavenging and shooting and wounds that never quite heal before the next one comes. But there’s also quiet walks and loud sex and a smile that rarely fails to inspire one from her. There’s waking up next to a kind, capable, man and watching his face go soft and warm when he looks at her. There’s a mutual understanding, of being _known_ , that’s new and precious and worth protecting. There’s flying, and there’s falling.

There’s Bucky, and there are mornings that Natasha opens her eyes having almost forgotten she has any other place or any other people to return to.

She does, though. They may be the only people left in the city, but Baltimore isn’t the whole world—and the machines are still laying waste to everything around them. She had come here to help that wider world; Bucky, hoping to help the people in it, had never left. They’ve both realized something idyllic and needed in their shared isolation, but now that it’s found, the broader purposelessness of their day-to-day weighs on Natasha.

It might be easier to want to leave if Bucky were trying to hinder her, but he keeps up the search for a working car, checking a new lot every few days, dogged and silent in the process. He always brightens a bit when they fail, and she can hardly blame him—not when she’s half-hoping for the same result—even as she can’t call off the search, either.

As she falls asleep, Natasha concocts schemes to level the Domino factory from the ground, toys with ways to make radio contact undetected by the drones, and discards them all before waking. Staying is not—cannot be—an option, not in the longer term, and Natasha can’t shake the need to get back to her other life. She sometimes wishes for a way to keep him, this sad but smiling soul she’s found, but Bucky refuses to broach the idea of leaving himself. So the prospect of her departure hangs between them, unspoken and ignored as much as it can be.

And then the skies open, because it’s spring in the mid-Atlantic, and Natasha wants nothing more than Bucky’s arms around her. He always obliges, and the world spins on without them in it for a little longer.

***

On an overcast afternoon some six weeks since Natasha’s arrival, they manage a picnic lunch in the museum, watching stray bits of sunlight glint off the mirrors and glass. Keeping a careful eye on the still-cloudy sky, they make their way back toward the apartment, hand in hand. The humidity keeps the machines at bay on days like these, and the temporary peace settles around them like a blanket of heavy air.

Bucky leads them on a wider arc to avoid any patrols, and perhaps to prolong the moment. They’re cutting across a small parking lot when Natasha almost trips over a fallen motorcycle.

“Hang on a sec,” she calls to Bucky, although he’s barely a yard ahead of her. “I just want to see…oh, wow, it _is_.”

Squatting, Natasha lets out a low whistle as Bucky peers over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“A Zero,” she explains, wiping dirt off the logo. “These things retailed for, like, $16,000 or more back in the day. I went to the dealer in Upper Darby once just to _see_ one.”

“You like motorcycles?” At her nod, he adds, “I used to have one, too—although I never really knew brands or anything.”

“I didn’t pay that much attention, but a client of mine had one of these, and they’re just _so pretty_.” She rises and rights the bike; it’s dusty and dented like everything else, but it doesn’t look noticeably broken.

“What makes this one so special?” he asks. “Is the tank gold-plated or something?”

Natasha laughs. “No, no, it’s—electric…” She belatedly realizes what she’s saying and winces.

“Oh. So, that—that could solve your problem, if it still works.” It’s astonishing how fast his face falls, and how fast he almost manages to school it back into a more neutral expression. “We’d just have to wheel it back home to where the generators are.”

“I’m not—you know I’m not in a hurry to leave,” she says quickly, but the damage is done, and Bucky won’t quite look at her.

“Well, it’ll probably take a day or so just to charge up, assuming it’s functional. The generators I have aren’t exactly what they used to be, although most of them work. You’re stuck with me a little longer either way, I guess.” He shrugs, staring intently at the motorcycle. “I’ll walk it, if you can keep an eye out for drones.”

“Sure, if you want to...” Natasha watches him walk a few steps ahead and then follows, trying to focus on the skies. She doesn’t want to stay stuck in a dead city indefinitely, even if she _isn’t_ trying to leave quickly. A working vehicle with a 200-plus-mile range is the kind of find she can’t ignore, either way.

The rest of the trip is quick and efficient, weighted down by the eerie silence around them. The drones are ostensibly still avoiding the threat of rain, so the only noise is the sound of the motorcycle and their boots crunching against the ground.

Back at the building, they maneuver the bicycle into the basement, where Bucky sorts through a pile of cords and cables to find one that fits in the Zero’s outlet. He then plugs everything in, powers up one of a roomful of propane-fueled electric generators, and steps back. After a tense minute, the machine’s charging light turns on—and its warning lights stay dark.

Natasha holds back a sigh of relief and instead says, “Let’s go back upstairs. We could…”

“Yeah,” he mutters, but he takes her offered hand and follows her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sil Lim Tau is a foundational form of [Wing Chun](http://www.kwokwingchun.com/about-wing-chun/the-wing-chun-forms/), one of several martial arts that, yes, Matt Murdock employs onscreen.
> 
> [Zero motorcycles](https://www.zeromotorcycles.com/zero-fxs/) do look pretty cool, and Upper Darby is a near suburb of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.


	10. Chapter 10

Back in the apartment, Natasha flops on the couch while Bucky washes dust and grease off his hands silently. When that goes on for a few seconds too long, she ventures, “You can stop pouting. It’s not like I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Maybe you should.” He turns to face her, drying his hands on a dishtowel. “There’s not really any reason to wait, once the bike’s charged up.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Natasha asks, but she can’t make it sound as sly as she means to. More soberly, she adds, “I _do_ want to get back, but you have to know I’m not in _that_ much of a hurry. I can wait until…”

Bucky throws the towel on the floor, where it lands with a wet thump. “Until what, Natalia? One of us gets shot? Sick? Until we run out of food? Do you want a whole car, or are you just waiting for an excuse to go when you need one?”

“That’s not fair,” she snaps, and he looks chagrined.

“No, it wasn’t,” he admits, joining her on the couch. “Sorry, it’s just…it’s been so long, and I…”

“People have left you before,” Natasha says softly, turning to face him without touching.

He stares down, watching the pinpricks of afternoon sunlight dance through the space between them. “None of them were you.”

“Then come with me,” she says, before she can think better of it. Bucky startles, like she knew he might, and she grabs his hands. “Tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever you’re ready, but then…don’t make me leave you behind.”

Withdrawing from her grasp, Bucky runs his hands through his hair. It’s almost in need of another cut. “Or…I’d ask you to stay, if I thought you would.” He sighs, already knowing the answer.

Natasha shakes her head. “James, I wouldn’t trade this time we’ve had for anything, but it’s got an expiration date, sooner or later. There’s no future here.”

“There’s no future anywhere,” he says, standing up to pace. “Not since the switch flipped.”

“You don’t know that!” She hopes she sounds more persuasive than desperate, no matter what she feels. “You haven’t seen what else is out there, beyond these neighborhoods and the ruins—and you haven’t met my people. There’s a way through this world, and maybe even out of it, but it’s not here.”

“I can’t leave,” he whispers, pausing to meet her stare. “My arm—I can’t even trust my own body, Nat.”

Natasha rises, hands on her hips. The burn from her arrival has healed, though the puffy pink skin left in its wake is still tender. “We’ll handle it. And not just you and I—do you think people outside of the Inner Harbor haven’t figured that much out?”

“I can’t risk that. I can’t risk _you_ ,” Bucky insists.

She places her palms on his shoulders, feeling the tension in them. “James, if I leave without you, there’s…that’s it. We can’t use radio. There’s no postal service, no phones, no wifi. You’ll just be this memory, and I—I’d never know—”

Crying doesn’t come easy to Natasha, and this moment is no exception. Still, she chokes on the idea of Bucky once again by himself, surrounded by killing machines and empty buildings.

Wordlessly, almost automatically, he wraps his arms around her, holding her close. She presses her face into his chest, breathing deeply. After a minute or so of silence, he murmurs, “Before, I thought about putting a bullet in my brain to quiet the ghosts.”

“James—”

“And then you came, and…I don’t want to be alone again. And I don’t want to die, really. But I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me, either.” Natasha tilts her head to look at Bucky. He sounds empty, or haunted, as he tries to hide a shudder. “I told you, Shuri only scrambled the signal enough to get me around the city. Without the buildings, it’s just a beacon, summoning anything on the drones’ frequency to wherever I am.”

Natasha gasps. How could she have missed this before? “James—you’re sure it’s their same frequency?”

He jerks away from her. “There were over two dozen kills before she fixed anything. I’m sure. And you’ve seen what happens when we’re out in the open. Why would you—?”

“Because.” Natasha falls back onto the couch, her mind suddenly racing. “Because you’re _tuned to their frequency_. James, every engineer I’ve met has been trying to crack that signal for _two years_. And anytime any human gets close enough to a drone, one or the other dies—but you’re already on the same channel. You’re what everyone’s been looking for.”

“It can’t possibly be that simple,” he argues. “You haven’t seen—”

“No, _you_ haven’t seen,” she interrupts, pulse pounding in her ears. “The tech is there; it never really went away. And my people are _good_ , really good. We haven’t had a way to fight back besides one by one, but with this…we could come back and take out that whole factory. We could control anything within range. There could be—”

“And before all that?” he asks hoarsely. “How would we even get—”

He’s considering it now, Natasha realizes; she just needs to convince him. She jumps to her feet, closing the distance between them again and bringing a palm to his cheek. “We fight, James. We load the bike with every bit of ammo we’ve got. We’ll wrap your arm in tinfoil, we’ll keep watch, and we’ll take down anything that comes at us. Like we always do.”

“Nat—”

“And when we get to St. Michaels—it’s only a couple of hours driving, right? When we get there, everyone else will fight, too, because we’re all on the same side.” She grabs his hands, gesturing with them to punctuate her words. “We all want to end this, if we can, and there are people—smart, good people—willing to try.”

“Nat—”

“And even if there weren’t,” she plows ahead. “You should still come with me, because you’ve done your penance, and you deserve more than what’s left here.”

“Nat—”

“Come with me because _I_ want you to, and maybe that should be enough.” She falls silent, searching his face for any sign of sway, only to realize that his expression is somewhere between tears and a smile. “Is it?”

Bucky swallows thickly, but the half-smile lingers. “Okay,” he says, in a voice so soft she can barely hear it, even inches from his face. She leans toward him, touching her forehead to his, and he repeats it. “Okay. If you’re sure—”

“Yes,” she says, kissing him gently. “Yes.”

He pulls her into a warm embrace, running his hands up her back, under her shirt. Natasha can feel his heartbeat quicken, and she kisses him again and again until he shifts to let her wrap her legs around his middle. As Bucky presses her back into the couch, he works his mouth down her neck and along her collarbone, only returning to her face when she murmurs, “I think I love you, James Buchanan Barnes.”

***

It’s another two days before they actually leave. Bucky expresses his doubts about half a dozen times, though he never quite changes his mind about leaving, and Natasha takes every opportunity to assure him it’s worth the risks—and that she thinks he is, too. With the weight of indecision lifted, she feels surer of him and of _them_ , and the road ahead seems less dangerous.

When he finds room in their limited packing space for her yoga mat, all she can do is laugh in delighted, sincere gratitude.

Once Bucky is satisfied that the weather—heavy and humid but without a storm cloud in sight—will hold, they load up the Zero and park it on the street outside. Back in the apartment, Natasha takes one last inventory of supplies, making sure they’re not forgetting anything essential, while Bucky gazes at his city map and then the river. She’s never felt strongly about places, before or after the machines, and never the way he does about Baltimore, but she does her best to give him the time he needs to let it all go.

After a few minutes, Bucky rests his metal fingers on the center of the map, where the apartment is, and takes a deep, steadying breath. He nods to himself and offers his left arm to Natasha, who carefully wraps it with an entire roll of aluminum foil. When she finishes, he wiggles his fingers and flexes his elbow experimentally—it’s not an ideal solution, but it should help for at least the first part of the ride, when they’re closest to the city.

At the bottom of the stairs, just before they leave the building, Bucky pauses again. Turning to Natasha, he asks once more, “You’re really sure about this?”

She’s standing on the step above him, and it puts them at about eye level as she drapes her arms around his shoulders. “You trust me?”

“Yes,” he says, his hands finding her hips, one thumb stroking the space on her leggings over the scar from their first meeting.

“Then yes,” she replies, kissing him on the forehead. “Let’s go.”

Bucky pushes the door open, and they step into the daylight. It glitters off the river as he steers them away, Natasha holding tight to him around every turn. Together, they cruise through the quiet streets and long-abandoned homes, flying steadily from the urban ruin and rising into a new orbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Also, if you enjoyed this story and would like to share it, please consider [reblogging this post on tumblr](https://stars-inthe-sky.tumblr.com/post/176344246962/how-to-get-back-there-by-starsinthesky) :)

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "[Tell Me If You Wanna Go Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GyiQtznyCGU)" from the movie Begin Again.


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